


Filthy and Close

by BrandyFromTheBottle



Category: Gravity Falls, Rick and Morty
Genre: AU, Anal Sex, But here it is, M/M, Prostitution, i guess, i'm a lesbian i shouldn't write gay porn shit, look - Freeform, look i just wanted rick and stan to tear up vegas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-12-22 00:11:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11955642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrandyFromTheBottle/pseuds/BrandyFromTheBottle
Summary: Stan Pines finds a high-rollin' Rick Sanchez. A one-shot in an AU where Rick decides to gamble his life away and Stan is along for the ride.





	Filthy and Close

“Come u--UUUURP--p to my room.” The high roller burps and Stan winks back, eyeing the gold watch, gold chain, gold, gold, gold. The man is thin and reedy--a kind of sickly gray that matches his stature as a tall sapling and a thatch of pale hair that stands as the washed-out crown of leaves. He’s got crows feet at his bloodshot eyes and a leer like a jackal. He was the perfect kind of fucked up.   
“Only if you got room service.” Stan says, already following the man to the elevators.

“And a minibar.” The man says with a cackle. Stan feels his smirk sliding into a genuine smile. This could really be fun.

_________

 

”F-fuck!” Stan stutters into his knuckles as he rides the beanpole of a high-roller. The man beneath him is surprisingly gentle for someone with enough money to seduce gold diggers (like Stan) and careful with every thrust to hit the that spot that makes Stan consider quitting his failing career as an ‘honest’ salesman and become a bit more of an uncouth professional. _Yeah_ , Stan’s dick agrees in the static that’s a euphoric brain. _Yeah_ , Stan could do shit like this until he was too gray and gross. _Shit_ , another thrust has Stan tossing his ridiculously mulleted head back. The bean beneath him doesn’t seem to mind. If he sighs or screams or squeals when a sharp thrust hits just right, no one needs to know. It’s between him, the john?, and the wallpaper. But most johns don’t coo:

“Boy, b-bAby boy, please. Baby boy, please. L-let go. That’s it, no one but us--g-God! B-baby b-b-boy, p-please!” And, shit, if that angle isn’t perfect and Stan is panting while bobbing like a jockey on the john’s? dick. He’s panting like a porn star but the john--Rick?--doesn’t call him out on it. Instead, the john--Rick?--grabs his dick and pulls and tugs and Stan is chewing his knuckles until:

“No, baby-boy, no, I wanna hear ya, please, let me hear ya--!” And if Stan stutters and scoffs and, eventually, screams, then it’s just him and this “Rick,” thrusting lazily into him until they are both panting and then Rick says:

“Wanna job?” And Stan has to wonder if he’ll be paid for tonight. “I like your muscle; I think we could use you.” Rick adds and Stanley feels the bitter seed of hope that maybe--maybe--maybe he can earn an honest living. Rick kisses his forehead in the morning, in the shower, his dick up Rick’s ass.

“We could--ah!--always use sommmmme--shit!--some back up.” Rick is shameless and honest in a way Stanley does not understand. If Stan agrees--his dick is up Rick’s ass, it’d be rude not too--then it was a heat of the moment thing. When Rick takes him to space, Stan swears off drugs, and alcohol, and even sex until Rick hits him hard with a stray surgical tray and starts raving about “small minded, Earthbond humans” and “suck it up, Pines, or I’ll drop you like a Jerry” and so Stan digs his fingers into the seat of the spaceship and tries not to puke.

Rick begins to recount his many adventures and trips and inadvisable journeys. Stan realizes what he’s in for and a mean, bitter part of him loves that _he_ gets this and not--not. Not his asshole of a brother living it up in whatever “successful” people call not living outta a fucking car and wondering if someone in their ass is gonna pay ‘em. And, boy, does Sanchez deliver.

See, Stan knows better than to get tangled with mafioso's and drug lords--down that path leads a pit of endless debt and more than one broken bone--and Sanchez does flavor the air with power and disdain the same way anyone with illicit power does. Sanchez--Rick--makes the air taste like power the same way a scrappy, clever beanpole ends up owning an entire prison block through sheer intellect and ruthlessness. Rick makes the air taste like walking a tightrope and Stan is terrified of heights. But, heights seem abstract when you can look down and see nothing-nothing--nothing--and then: Earth. It’s like the absence of gravity makes the fear of falling feel as ridiculous as it sounds. And then people start shooting and--how many limbs does something need to be a person?--and Stan knows what to do. He was always good at the two Fs (and one of ‘em ain’t Ford, but, damn, if knowing that asshole wasn’t like second nature to him). After each heist, Rick gives him a look like a terrier gives a rat, like Stan is a parasite Rick needs to extract with his teeth with _discretion_ . Rick is horrifically gentle and it takes Stan a long time to adjust to _gentle_ . He doesn’t get _gentle_ but this Rick doesn’t do _hard and mean_ the way Stan expects. He does gentle even when he isn’t paying Stan for the pleasure and he’s gentle after a failed heist and he’s gentle after everything. Stan isn’t sure if he loves or hates that shit. There are bad days when Rick’s “b-baby b-b-boy--oh, sh-hit! G-god!” got Stan’s motor running like diesel on an open flame and Stan retaliates by making it _hurt_. Too little lube, pulling at Rick until Rick can’t help but pull back. It’s not easy; it’s not hard. It’s just like Rick.

Of course, Rick isn’t kind. Somehow, all his bedside manners flee the moment he’s free of bedsheets and a wet dick. Rick Sanchez is the worst asshole in the galaxy and somehow Stan finds himself reclining like princess Leia while Rick swears and gesticulates until the price of k-lax drops to reasonable. And Rick always rides him _hard_ after k-lax (the _gentle_ starts to fade when Rick realizes Stan ain’t leaving).

“Great high, but t-t-too f-fu--UGH--ucking short!” Rick stutters and burps and shouts. Stan is more than happy to help the first ten times. Sex is a great way to distract from a come down. But, damn, Sanchez is really high and people ain’t themselves when they’re high. Well, Rick is hardly ever himself. He’s always between a considerate lover and an asshole nihilist. Stan rolls the die daily and, usually, his luck holds. Today, though, his luck falls like rocks through wet paper towel. Sanchez is in full asshole mode, and it’s the kind of asshole you can’t fuck (though Stan IS fucking an asshole, heh, ain’t that funny).

“I gotta daughter.” He say with Stan’s dick up to the hilt inside him. At first, Stan thinks this is a test or some kind of kinky shit. Like: “Haha, can you still fuck me when you know I got kids?” But there’s no safeword or sly jab. It’s just Stan fucking into Sanchez and him sharing the kind of shit you share with your priest. Stan doesn’t stop because he’s a professional. Or, he knows family shit doesn’t belong in the bedroom.

“Got nothin’ to say, Pines?” Rick asks with a nasty sneer. Stan grunts through a thrust that sends Sanchez jumping and swearing and scrabbling at his arms. Stan’s on his back because Rick’s a controlling asshole and Stan’s tired from being fucked out. He’s a little confused and tired and pissed, so he grabs Rick’s hips on the down swing and holds him flush against Stan’s hips.

“Two things I don’t want in the bedroom, Sanchez: family and kids.” Stan growls around the urge to thrust, keeping the wriggling man above him still until Rick looks him in the eye.

“I didn't r-r-UUURP-ealizing I was f-f-f-ucking a p-pussy, I woulda worn a c-condom.” Rick snarks back and cards clawed hands through Stan’s thick chest hair, leaving red marks and pulling a few of the curly strands loose. (They’d ditched condoms months ago when Rick finally convinced Stan that, no, he didn’t have “space AIDS,” that’s fucking stupid, Stanley, and even if he did he’d invent a cure for it.) Stan rolls his eyes and pushes Rick up and then pulls him down _hard_. He’s rewarded with Rick’s mouth clicking shut and, hopefully, Rick’s bitten his tongue and won’t say anything else to ruin the mood. Stan’s luck falls through again.

“She’s gonna be a year old soon.” Rick sighs and Stan groans in a mix of frustration and the subtle spasm of Rick around his dick.

“Seriously, Legs, I’mma go soft if you keep talking about kids.” Stan grunts and slows his movements for emphasis. Rick groans above him and picks up his pace in retaliation. Stan can’t help the moan that a panting and furious Rick Sanchez elicits while bobbing on his dick.

“It always h-h- _h-aaa_ \--appens.” Rick stutters out and Stan groans again. Rick rides him harder, as if he can prove Stan’ll come even if Rick is talking family and kids and, goddamn, this psychopath’ll ruin him. “‘S gotta. G-g-gotta _aahhhh._ ” Rick’s confession tapers into a moan and Stan finds he’s really done with shit and everyone needs to get off and sleep, so. He grabs Rick’s skinny waist and turns them over--he slips out and Rick whines at the cold and empty feeling Stan is intimately familiar with--and once Rick is on his back and staring up at Stan, Stan hoists his legs on his shoulders and slips right back into place. Rick groans like a porn star and it drives Stan wild, but Rick’s gearing up to talk more bullshit so Stan shoves two finger into Rick’s mouth and thrust fingers and dick together. Rick sucks on Stan’s fingers, tongue soft and firm in turns, teeth a constant, heady threat. He wraps his tongue around Stan’s fingers, between them, beneath the short, blunt nails.

“Shit.” Stan says, eloquent as a high school dropout could be. His fingers start spasming and his hips start stuttering and Sanchez makes it worse by moaning and sucking with his mouth and squeezing with his ass and Stan comes too quickly after family talk but that’s shit for tomorrow because Rick is still hard and still looks chatty so Stan pulls out his dick and puts three fingers in place and _pushes_ and _curls_. Rick swears a blue streak, it’s almost mild, as Stan massages his prostate and when he cums he almost breaks Stan’s fingers.

They’re panting; Rick staring at the ceiling as Stan groans and flops next to him. The bed is only just big enough to accommodate Rick and half-a-Stan, so one of Stan’s sore thighs slides off the bed and hangs limply as he stretches both arms above him. Rick rolls over with a grunt and grabs his flask and takes several, generous gulps. Stan gears up to hear a monologue.

“Her name’s Beth. It’s always Beth.” Rick says to the ceiling and Stan grunts. Rick drinks again--a talent of his, to drink horizontal. Stan’s tried it and wound up wearing most of the whiskey. “I didn’t wanna.” Rick says and Stan says nothing, just waits. He knows how these smart types get when they get into their own heads. Stan paws around for a cigarette and finds an empty carton. He swears and throws the trash to the floor. “I don’t wanna be a dad.” Rick mutters and Stan resigns himself to counselor status.

“That’s shitty.” Stan says. Rick coughs a laugh like a goose dying and then starts coughing in earnest. Stan looks at him blithely, but Rick isn’t dying, so it’s all good.

“I d-don’t w-wanna be like o-o-ther Ricks.” Rick says and Stan turns to look at him.

“Ain’t met too many Ricks.” Stan says and Rick scoffs.

“A wh-hole f-fuckin’ council of us.” He slurs as the exhaustion and misery hits and Stan just rolls over and hugs the skinny asshole to his chest. Rick snuggles into his filthy, sweaty chest hair like it’s an afghan and Stan cards his thick fingers through Rick’s hair.

“Tomorrow's problem, Rick.” Stan murmurs into Rick’s gray hair and Rick sighs a little and closes his eyes. They sleep like that--filthy and close.


End file.
